The imagination is man's power over nature.

Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.

We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.

Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.

Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?